


Command Me To Be Well

by enoughtotemptme



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: 5+1, By the end it's total fluff, F/M, Fluff, Future Fic, POV Multiple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-18
Updated: 2015-03-18
Packaged: 2018-03-18 10:25:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3566267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enoughtotemptme/pseuds/enoughtotemptme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Or, five times people are concerned for Clarke's health and one time they are concerned for their own.</p><p>(Written pre-"Blood Must Have Blood, Part 1.")<br/>(Day Three of #OneYearOfThe100 Week: Favorite Scene/Coda/Add On)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Command Me To Be Well

**Author's Note:**

> I started this pre-"Blood Must Have Blood, Part One" so hahahahahaha. Ignore the way I continue to live in denial and insist on rescuing all forty-seven. Also, I don't know that I have a FAVORITE episode, so I just picked a scene I wanted to follow up on. The first part of this 5+1 takes place in "Spacewalker," and which scene is hopefully clear. The other parts of the fic are futurefic scenes.

**I.**

Murphy still wouldn’t mind murdering Bellamy, given the chance. Every now and then, he gets the urge. But that’s a simple revenge craving; an eye for eye. There are more important things at stake now; the Ark has landed, and the remaining of the one hundred have been taken, and Finn’s gone fucking _crazy––_ Murphy’s taken more than one life, but never without cause. Never like Finn, and the eighteen people he shot without proof or reason.

And now Finn’s pushing into the dropship, carrying the princess in his arms, and the sight of Clarke’s head rolling against him with each movement sends a surprisingly strong bolt of dread through Murphy.

Has Finn gone even more batshit crazy than he already was? Has he offed the princess, once and for all?

(He’d thought he’d be more impressed by the idea of Clarke dead; she’s like those bugs pre-cataclysm legends always talked about, the ones that wouldn’t die even when you stomped on them or nuked the earth, and killing her would be a surprising feat. But instead of feeling impressed, he feels a little sick.)

“What happened?” Bellamy demands, rushing to Clarke’s side.

“Grounder,” says Finn, carrying her further into the dropship. “Hit her on the head.”

She’s not dead––

And part of Murphy’s grateful, and another part of him wonders when the fuck he started to care. But he doesn’t dwell on that.

“Put her here,” Murphy hears himself say as he drags old cushions into place. Finn lays her down and then spins away, shoving his hands through his hair and jesus _fuck_ , will Finn ever get his shit together?

“I–I need a, a bandage, a rag, anything––” Bellamy commands then, and Murphy sprints across the level to grab a forgotten length of cloth.

“Got it. Here,” he says, thrusting it into Bellamy’s hands. He notices them shaking, and normally he would snicker at the so-called fearless leader’s anxiety, but somehow the stricken expression on Bellamy’s face, the face of a man he tried to kill only _days_ ago, convinces him to slide his hands under Clarke’s skull and hold her, gently, gently, when Bellamy says to hold her head.

“Clarke?” Murphy says. He can feel the warm trickle of blood on his hands where they touch her. He tries to convince himself it was said with a tone of indifference.

(It doesn’t work.)

“Can you hear me?” Bellamy asks. “ _Clarke._ ” He whispers her name a couple more times, and then she makes the tiniest of sounds.

Bellamy doesn’t look up from Clarke’s face, though Murphy does. Finn is twisting and turning in place like some kind of fucking lunatic, his face contorting in the creepiest expressions.

Murphy almost admires Bellamy in that moment, because he has yet to glance away from Clarke, has yet to stop holding the cloth to her wound, has yet to stop looking at her as if she’s the fucking sun and he’s been stuck in one of the grounders’ windowless cells for days.

(Murphy knows how incredible the sun looks and feels after being in one of those.)

“You’re going to be fine.” Bellamy’s voice is low, soothing, focused. “You just need to rest.”

Across the level, Raven’s trying to calm fuckhead Finn down, but he’s a far cry from the long-haired mediator Murphy remembers from those first days on the ground, and it’s obvious that the mechanic’s fighting a losing battle.

Murphy had thought spacewalker had been the one in love with Clarke. After all, he claims that’s why he shot up a village of old people and kids. To get her back. And he had thought, at least at the beginning, that Bellamy had hated Clarke Griffin. But it’s clear now that whatever Finn is feeling is the opposite of love, and what Bellamy feels––poor bastard, Murphy surprises himself by thinking, pityingly––is the closest to the real thing Murphy’s ever fucking seen.

He hopes Clarke turns out okay. If only, he tells himself, because he doesn’t want to have to watch Bellamy Blake snivel like a baby.

* * *

**II.**

They’ve been out of Mount Weather for over a month now, and while the forty-seven have been steadily recovering, others aren’t doing so well. In particular, Monty’s worried about Clarke. The last time he saw her smile was when they streamed out of the mountain. Her smile then had been brilliant, brighter than the sun they were feeling for the first time in weeks, and when he had seen it he knew, finally, that they were free.

Their bodies have since healed, and their souls––well, their souls are working on it. Monty still wakes from dreams with the sound of Tsing’s screams echoing in his mind, and he knows he’s not the only one. But each day sees them improve a little.

Except for Clarke. Every day since, the circles under her eyes are a little darker, her cheeks a little thinner. Her voice is a little more brittle, even as she tries to maintain a calm facade when any of them visit her in the medbay or around the fires at night.

Monty doesn’t know what to do––he tries asking Clarke how she’s doing once, and she just brushes him off with muttered comments about being busy with the peace negotiations. He tries offering to assist her in the medbay, which just makes her snappish, and he tries bringing her chamomile tea in the evening, only to find the cup full, cold, untouched the next morning.

Then, one night when he gets up in the wee hours of the morning to stumble wearily to the latrines, he sees the pale glow of the medbay light. He had tried bringing tea to Clarke again that evening, so he knows that she doesn’t have any patients. The light should be off. He tiptoes over and peers inside. Clarke’s sitting at one of the worktables, head propped up with one hand, the other busily tracing invisible shapes on the surface. She doesn’t move for the entire time Monty watches her, and it’s clear to him that this isn’t the first night she’s spent this way.

So the next day, he goes to Bellamy, and tells him everything. The older man listens silently, gaze serious and focused on Monty, who concludes his ramble, “So, yeah. I’m worried about her.”

Bellamy presses his lips in a tight line, then sighs.

“I am, too,” he says, and the admission causes a sinking feeling in Monty’s stomach. Then he says, “I’ll take care of it,” in that decisive manner of his, and Monty’s shoulders slump.

“Okay, good,” Monty replies, relieved. “Thanks, Bellamy.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Now get going. That greenhouse isn’t going to plant itself.”

It takes about a week for him to notice. Monty hadn’t realized he hadn’t seen Clarke and Bellamy together since they embraced outside of Mount Weather until the sight of Bellamy constantly shadowing Clarke catches him off guard. It makes him wonder why, but then he overhears a hushed but angry conversation when he pauses outside the medbay, bundles of freshly harvested seaweed in his arms.

“I told you I needed to be left alone. That I needed _time_ , Bellamy!”

Bellamy’s voice drifts out. “You don’t get any more time, Clarke.” His voice is low and furious. “I gave you time and you didn’t do a damn thing to heal yourself. You just did a shitty job of hiding instead.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Clarke’s voice is indignant.

“All the kids have noticed,” Bellamy hisses. “Monty was the first one to tell me his concerns, but then it was Harper, then Jasper, then Miller and Monroe. Even fucking Marcus Kane talked to me about you!”

“I–” Clarke says. “I’m fine. Fine.”

“You don’t get to hide anymore, Clarke,” Bellamy says. “I didn’t get to.”

“Bellamy–” Clarke’s voice is anguished, and Monty knows he should stop listening, he should walk away. But.

“You’re not the only who had to make shitty decisions, Clarke. You’re not the only one who killed people.” Bellamy’s voice breaks a little, and now Monty really can’t bear to listen any longer.

But as he hurries away, he heard Clarke sigh Bellamy’s name, and it sounds like surrender.

And then things start getting better.

Now when Monty brings Clarke tea, Bellamy’s always sitting next to her at the worktable, and she trades sips with him. Near the fires at night, Bellamy balances a plate on his knee and nudges Clarke until she eats with him. One morning, Monty’s up before dawn to make sure the night frost didn’t penetrate the greenhouse and hurt their fragile crops. He glances at the medbay out of habit, but the light is out; when he passes by the row of hastily constructed metal sleeping quarters on his way back later, Bellamy’s slipping out of Clarke’s door, and she’s bidding him a sleepy but well-rested goodbye.

* * *

**III.**

Clarke’s taken to bugging the shit out of Raven on a near-daily basis. She’s always barging into Raven’s workspace, asking stupid questions, like if the range on the radios can be improved more.

“No, Clarke. Not unless you want to level the entire forest.”

Can the improved hydroponics system be implemented in Monty’s greenhouses before the weather turns again?

“You’d have to talk to the people actually working on the installation.”

Today, Clarke leans silently against the wall, watching Raven repair one of the airlock doors that’s started to malfunction. It’s not Raven’s favorite job, and it’s not like Raven’s not in the middle of a dozen more important projects, but that morning Abby had ordered her to do it so she had gritted her teeth and agreed.

“What do you think about hydroelectric power?” she asks suddenly, and Raven’s hand slips.

“Damn it, Clarke!” she growls, tossing her tools back into her kit with a frustrated movement. Their relationship is better than it used to be, maybe even as good again as it once was, but that doesn’t mean her tolerance for Clarke’s constant questions and demands has grown at all. “Do I look like I want to have a discussion about power sources right now?”

“Sorry,” she replies, but her expression is distracted. “But what do you think?”

“Seriously?” Raven says. Clarke just looks at her, and Raven sighs and leans against the opposite wall. “In theory, it’s a great idea. In practice, the stream that feeds into the lake is too weak to generate a lot of power.”

“Yeah,” Clarke agrees pensively. “But what about the river?”

“The river?” Raven repeats slowly. “I guess, but...it’s pretty far. I have a hard time imagining everybody being okay with relocating Camp Jaha close enough to use the power. Not to mention the majority of the Ark is, like, embedded in the ground.”

It’s like Clarke doesn’t even hear most of Raven’s words; she just nods and bites her lip.

“Thanks, Raven.” With that, she pushes herself away from the wall with a grimace, and Raven watches with a frown as Clarke walks away with a hand rubbing her lower back.

 

It’s not the last time she notices Clarke grimacing or wincing or rolling her shoulders with a little groan. She can’t quite figure out what’s got Clarke so tense––no one’s been majorly injured, peace is holding strong, everyone has enough to eat and a place to sleep.

Sure, once the war against Mount Weather was won, the adults who came down with Ark decided they no longer felt like allowing the delinquents any leeway, and all the power Clarke and the others had taken reverted back to the chancellor and the council. It’s been kind of shitty since then, but they’ve all been dealing with it––she knows Clarke in particular feels too much guilt to demand back the power that she was forced to wield during the war.

A couple weeks later, Raven walks into the medbay with a nasty burn from her soldering iron and manages to walk into a tense, hushed argument between Abby and Clarke. They both stop when they notice her, and Raven takes in Abby’s glare, Clarke’s mutinous expression.

Abby darts a glance at Raven, then turns back to Clarke with a pinched look.

“That’s final,” she says, then brushes past Raven on her way out of the medbay.

Clarke lets out a wordless growl of frustration before gesturing at Raven to come closer.

Raven holds out her arm silently, watching the other girl. When Clarke hesitates between the camp-produced salve and the jar of dried seaweed, then huffs a little and pulls out a pinch of the red plant, Raven has to ask.

“What was all that about?”

“It’s stupid,” Clarke mutters, winding a bandage carefully around Raven’s burn. “She wants to focus on producing more of the Ark’s medicine, which is _fine_ ––sometimes that’s what we need. But she refuses to see that a lot of the natural remedies work just as well. She doesn’t want me to use any of what Nyko taught me, and it’s ridiculous!”

The gentle way she tucks the end of the bandage under itself belies her angry tone and tense posture.

“Hey,” Raven says, reaching up to rest a hand on Clarke’s shoulder. “It’s alright.”

The second her fingers squeeze gently, Clarke’s pulling away with a muffled cry.

“What the hell, Clarke?” she asks, brow furrowing.

Clarke says nothing, only clutching her shoulder and biting her lip.

“Clarke,” she repeats. “How many of these ‘stupid’ conversations have you had with your mother?”

She’s silent for a minute, then sighs. “Just today?”

Raven slips her radio from its holster on her belt.

“Bellamy, you’re needed in the medbay,” she says into the device.

“Raven!” Clarke exclaims, cheeks flushing.

Raven rolls her eyes at Clarke and waits for a response. Only a couple seconds pass before the radio crackles to life and Bellamy’s voice says, “Copy that.”

Clarke glares at Raven and Raven glares right back until Bellamy jogs into the room.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, a little breathless.

“Nothing!” Clarke tries to say, and then yelps in pain when Raven pokes her in the middle of her shoulder blade.

Bellamy frowns, looking between the two of them. “What’s going on?”

“Raven burned herself,” Clarke says through gritted teeth; Raven pokes her again. “Ow!”

“Princess here has worked herself up into a royal mess of pain,” Raven says flatly. “No thanks to her mother and likely half the adults in this damn camp.”

She moves out of the way and hoists herself onto a clear section of the worktable when Bellamy approaches Clarke and turns her around.

“Jesus, Clarke. I didn’t know it was this bad,” Bellamy mutters, running his hands over Clarke’s back. Raven can see him poking and prodding at the no doubt numerous knots, Clarke wincing at every movement.

“Yeah, well, I hid it from you,” Clarke admits, then whimpers.

“Every time I touched you, it had to hurt,” he replies, irritation heavy in his voice. “What the hell, Clarke?”

“That’s what I said,” Raven adds, pulling an apple from her pocket and munching on it when they both glare at her. “Hey, can I get a massage, too?”

“Clarke,” Bellamy begins. “Nothing’s worth you feeling like this.”

“Bellamy,” Clarke sighs, “just because I’m the only having problems adjusting to the way things are doesn’t mean everything should change for me.”

“But you’re not,” Raven pipes up. “Your mom’s driving me up the fucking wall with all the stupid shit she’s got me wasting time on.”

“And Monroe’s constantly pissed because they’ve got her on childcare duty instead of hunting, even though she’s one of the best shots in this entire damn camp,” Bellamy adds. “Jasper’s stuck fishing every damn day, Harper is on laundry duty. None of us are being used to our full potential, in ways that actually _matter_.”

“Admit it, Clarke,” Raven says. “You’ve been thinking about leaving. Asking about the river and power?”

“Dreaming about it,” Clarke says grudgingly.

“As far as I can tell, things are getting worse for us, not better. Half of our people are miserable, the other half are pissed. _Some,_ ” he adds, frowning at Clarke, “are making themselves sick with the stress. So let’s just leave.”

“Leave?” Clarke echoes.

“Kane’s reasonable,” Raven notes. “He would probably help us, give us supplies to start us off if we asked him right.”

“And our peace with Lexa is through you, Clarke. If you asked, I doubt she would refuse to let us make our own settlement by the river,” Bellamy says.

Clarke bites her lip, glances between Raven and Bellamy.

Raven shrugs when Clarke doesn’t speak. “Listen, I can deal if we stay here. And I can deal if we go, and I’m willing to try it. But it’s on you two to decide, Clarke. They all follow you.”

“You think we’ve got a shot?” Clarke asks them.

“More than a shot,” Raven scoffs.

Finally, Clarke smiles. “Then start working on ideas for that hydroelectric power, okay, Raven? We’re going to need it.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Raven says, hopping off the table. She sees the way Bellamy’s grinning at Clarke and the way she’s grinning back, so she sails out through the medbay doors before she has to watch them go at it.

* * *

**IV.**

He’s taking the shortcut back from the river to their new camp’s most recent build site with his refilled canteen when he sees her. She’s kneeling on the ground behind her cabin, almost hidden from view, hands braced on the ground. Clarke’s peculiar position is enough to make Miller frown and pause. When her shoulders convulse and she retches, though, he lets out a low curse and breaks into a jog toward her.

“Clarke?” he asks when he reaches her. She’s taking in a shaky breath, but when he speaks she starts and looks up at him in shock. Before she can say anything her face goes even whiter and she vomits again.

“Shit,” he mutters, dropping into a crouch next to her. He awkwardly gathers her hair so it’s not falling in front of her face. When she stops dry-heaving and starts breathing carefully, he unscrews the lid to his canteen.

“Here,” he says, thrusting it in front of her face. She takes it and sits back on her heels, then rinses her mouth out.

“Thanks, Miller,” she says hoarsely, her voice tinged with embarrassment. Clarke tries to hand it back to him, but he shakes his head.

“You keep it,” he says.

Clarke sighs. “Yeah, I guess it’s kind of gross now. Thanks.”

He scrutinizes her face, the pallor of her skin, the light sheen of sweat on her forehead. The way she was hidden behind the cabin when he spotted her suggests it’s not the first time she’s been sick. But all he says is “Clarke.”

But that’s all he needs to say.

Her shoulders hunch defensively. “I’m fine,” she says.

He frowns at her.

“I’m fine!” When he just keeps frowning, she sighs. “I _will_ be fine.”

“You shouldn’t hide it if you’re sick, Clarke,” he tells her. They both know what he’s really saying––she shouldn’t hide it from Bellamy if she’s sick. Because that’s the only reason she’d be throwing up in secret––if she was trying to keep her illness from Bellamy.

“I know,” she says, fidgeting with the canteen. “I was just...hoping it would go away. That’s all.”

“Doesn’t look like it,” he replies, pushing himself up and extending a hand to her.

Clarke groans and lets him hoist her to her feet.

“I’ve got to head back to the build site,” Miller says after a couple seconds of silence.

Clarke offers him a wan smile. “Thanks again,” she says.

“Yeah.”

She starts to walk off in the opposite direction, and Miller calls after her after a moment of internal debate.

“Hey. Don’t let me catch you back here again, okay?”

Clarke glances back at him.

“Miller…”

“I mean it,” he says. If she doesn’t come clean, he’s not going to lie for her. His loyalty to Clarke runs deep, but it stops when staying loyal to her means letting her grow sicker with no one the wiser.

“Give me a couple days?” she asks eventually.

He nods. “A couple.”

 

He keeps a close eye on Clarke after that. She picks at her meals, but her color is a little better. He watches Bellamy too, for any indication that he knows about Clarke yet. He sees none, and Clarke’s taken to avoiding Miller’s gaze, or frowning right back at him if he manages to catch her eye.

Two mornings later, Miller’s on the verge of pulling Bellamy aside when he sees Clarke stand and tug Bellamy by the hand to stand in the doorway of their cabin.

They’re too far away to hear, for anyone to hear, but he has a good view of Bellamy’s face. At first, his face goes blank and his mouth is a grim line, which means that Clarke’s finally told him about getting sick. Miller’s grateful––he _really_ didn’t want to be the one to tell Bellamy, or the one that Bellamy attacks because he’s such a mess about Clarke.

But then he notices Clarke tug on Bellamy’s hand again and she says something that has Bellamy’s mouth dropping open. Suddenly, Bellamy’s grabs Clarke’s shoulders, then her arms, then he slides his hands to press on Clarke’s stomach.

Miller’s brow furrows, watching the other man stare at Clarke with wide eyes, and then Clarke covers Bellamy’s hands with her own. They stand there for a moment, both with their hands pressed to Clarke’s midsection, and slowly Miller realizes what he’s been watching.

He’s not the only one to know for very long, though, because then Bellamy’s whooping and spinning Clarke around, and she’s laughing and hitting him in the shoulder while she yells to put her down, or else she’s going to throw up.

Bellamy does, but only so he can yell, “We’re having a baby!” and then kiss Clarke enthusiastically. There’s a second of shocked silence, then the whole camp erupts in cheers and cries of excitement.

Harper appears next to him, a beaming smile on her face. “Wow,” she says. “New home, new baby. Isn’t it great?”

Miller watches Bellamy and Clarke for another moment, then grins at Harper. “Yeah,” he says. “It’s pretty great.”

* * *

**V.**

The medbay was the first real building constructed when they made their move to their new camp, and ever since then that’s where Clarke can be found. Even now, after all of the major structures have been built––everyone even has a cabin of their own!––Clarke is almost always in the medbay instead of the mess hall or Clarke and Bellamy’s cabin or Raven’s workroom.

That’s why when Lincoln and Octavia get back into camp with their latest haul, she kisses Lincoln goodbye and takes the parcels of herbs to Clarke while he carries the slain deer to the mess.

“Hey,” she says shortly, pushing her way into the organized room, “I’ve got the––”

She breaks off when she sees Clarke clinging to her work table with a white-knuckled grip. Even as she watches, Clarke lets out a long, slow breath through her mouth, straightens up from her bent position, and moves her hands to cup the mound of her belly.

“Hi Octavia,” she says with a small smile. Octavia frowns back, but Clarke’s expression doesn’t change.

This is how they’ve coexisted since the war, during the times that Octavia and Lincoln are at the camp instead of with the _Trigedakru_. Clarke is pleasant, Octavia’s not, Bellamy watches with resignation, and they all do what needs to be done.

It’s true that it’s been months since Octavia’s looked at Clarke and thought only of missile-ravaged bodies, piled up in TonDC. Usually she just looks at Clarke and thinks _she looks tired_ , or _Bellamy’s going to be_ pissed _when he sees what she’s doing,_ or _maybe someone should help her with that._ She may not have meant to, but her heart has forgiven Clarke for the horrific choices she made.

But the habits of hostility are hard to break.

She breaks one now. “Are you alright, Clarke?” she asks, setting down the parcels next to where Clarke had apparently been dividing medicine up into individual doses.

Clarke’s mouth opens a little in surprise. “Oh,” she says. “Um, yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.” Her eyes flicker away from Octavia’s, searching the room before apparently settling on the parcels. “You found the flowers?”

“Yeah,” Octavia responds. “We stopped to see Nyko on the way back, and he confirmed they’re the right ones. So, you know, you won’t poison anyone who comes to you with a runny nose.”

“Great,” Clarke says enthusiastically. “I’ll just take care of these now, then. You’re probably hungry––you should go grab some food.”

The forced brightness in Clarke’s voice has Octavia raising an eyebrow, and then she doesn’t miss the way the other woman’s body stiffens. As she watches, Clarke braces one hand on the table and lowers herself to sit on her stool. Her free hand makes tight, firm circles on her stomach.

Octavia _is_ hungry, but something about Clarke is off. So instead she smiles brightly, causing shock to bloom on Clarke’s face, and takes a seat across from her.

“I already ate,” she lies, and starts unwrapping one of the packets. “I’ll help you here.”

Clarke sighs, and in a moment when her posture relaxes, she reaches for a packet too.

In the time it takes to unwrap and sort a dozen packets of plants and herbs, Clarke’s gone stiff at least as many times. When Octavia moves on to dividing the pile in front of her into individual little doses, Clarke grabs for the edge of the table again and lets out a whimper.

“I knew it!” she says, and waits for Clarke to ride out the pain. When her body relaxes and she lets out another carefully regulated breath, she avoids Octavia’s gaze.

“Clarke,” she chides when it’s clear Clarke’s not going to be the first to speak, “how long has this been going on?”

Clarke bites her lip and looks up at her, and Octavia’s surprised to realize what she sees on Clarke’s face is undisguised fear. She thinks it’s probably been a long time since anyone has seen Clarke like this, except for maybe her brother.

“Clarke,” she says gently. “How long?”

“Since last night?” Clarke answers softly. She winces when Octavia repeats “Last _night_?” incredulously.

“I didn’t realize what it was until earlier today,” Clarke explains. “And I’ve been hoping it’s just false labor. There’s no point in worrying anybody until I know for sure.”

“No point?” Octavia says, eyebrows raised high. “There sure as hell is a point, Clarke. Several of them, actually. One, you shouldn’t be alone for this, even if it’s false labor. Two, Bellamy would want to know, which _you_ know very well! Three, you know the plan is to send for Nyko when it’s time! What if it takes him too long to get here?”

Clarke sniffs a little, then cries out and leans forward.

Octavia sighs and moves to the medbay door.

“David!” she calls when she spots Miller’s dad heading toward the mess hall. “Get Bellamy, would you? And Lincoln, if you spot him.” He nods and takes off at a jog.

“Oh no,” she hears Clarke say in a very small voice.

She turns back and sees Clarke standing up and plucking at the wet fabric of her pants, pulling it away from her skin.

“Octavia,” Clarke says. “I’m in labor.”

Octavia rolls her eyes, but moves forward to wrap her arm around Clarke’s waist for support. “No shit, Clarke. Come on, let’s get you home.”

Now that she’s touching her, she can feel the heat of Clarke’s body and the way her muscles contract when she pants in pain, and she can’t help but worry deep down that something’s going to go wrong.

She doesn’t want it to, because if it did her brother would be destroyed, and because her niece or nephew is part of her _family_ , but also because she doesn’t want Clarke to––well, she just doesn’t want anything to go wrong.

Their movement from the medbay to the cabin is slow going, and they’ve only made it a few paces before Bellamy skids to a stop near them.

“Clarke!”

In spite of the fact that Octavia can tell she’s in the middle of a contraction, Clarke smiles at Bellamy. “I’m alright,” she breathes. “Hi Lincoln,” Clarke greets the other man as he approaches too.

“Clarke,” he says, taking in her disheveled and obvious state, and Octavia’s strangely charmed at the way her chosen’s reproachful voice makes Clarke flush a brighter embarrassed red.

“Sorry,” she mumbles.

“Should I leave for Nyko?” he asks as Bellamy takes over supporting Clarke.

“It’s probably too late,” Clarke admits. “My water’s already broken. By the time you get him and return, it might all be over.”

“ _Clarke_ ,” her brother says tightly.

Octavia glances at Bellamy, sees the tension in the lines of his body and yet the careful, careful way he holds Clarke up.

“Go,” she tells Lincoln. “Might as well.”

 _Just in case_ , they all know she’s saying.

He nods and heads for the horse they keep for emergencies like this. He doesn’t kiss her goodbye, but Octavia doesn’t mind. They both know that she and Lincoln always, always, find their way back to each other.

Clarke groans, and Octavia looks over to see her brother try to panic quietly. Pushing away her own worry, she steps up and grabs Clarke’s free hand.

“Let’s get you settled, alright?”

(Lincoln and Nyko arrive too late. But nothing goes wrong. It all goes so, so right, and when Octavia leaves Clarke resting, her brother is perched next to her on the edge of the bed, a tiny, wonderful, _loud_ little bundle in his arms and the most incandescent smile she’s ever seen on his face.)

* * *

**+ I.**

Clarke was supposed to meet with him for an update on his newest collaboration with Raven over half an hour ago, but she hasn’t showed. Jasper tries looking for Bellamy, but he’s missing too––no one’s out on a hunt, the camp is running smoothly, there’s been no new building for months. The only place that he figures either of them could be is their cabin.

And since Raven (rudely) absolutely _refuses_ to let him implement his new heating system for a potential oven in the mess hall unless Clarke or Bellamy approve it (so one of the prototypes _exploded_ , it happens, and he’s _fixed_ it, can’t Raven give it a rest already?), that’s where Jasper heads.

The door to the cabin is closed, but the camp still hasn’t bothered with latches; instead everyone just lowers a lock bar on the inside whenever they’re home and want to be alone. Jasper tries the door and he’s in luck; the bar isn’t engaged and the door easily pushes inward with a loud creak.

“Hey, Clarke, Bellamy, whatever Raven’s told you is a filthy lie and you _really_ should let me––” Jasper stops halfway through the doorway, staring across the room at the bed. Both Clarke and Bellamy are lying on the bed, the baby between them, and while both Bellamy and Ella are asleep, Clarke is wide awake.

“ _Jasper Jordan_ ,” Clarke hisses, and he’s never been so terrified of such a quiet whisper. “If you don’t get out of this cabin in the next three seconds, _silently_ , I _will kill you._ ”

Jasper’s never moved so fast.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Why is naming ficbabies so hard? My reasoning behind the name is that fairy tales are not excluded from Bellamy and Clarke's nerdery, and also Bellamy is just stoked to name his daughter after an actual fairy tale princess. Bellamy Blake is huge loser nerd with a ton of gooey feelings and a massive stash of dad jokes, pass it on.


End file.
